we used to kiss (and the devil makes four)
in the front seats of stationary cars.
and now they kiss on stage and say 'i do,'
while he and i, both short on cash,
still stand and shoot the late october breeze.
all strung out on the memories,
we take long drags off short cigarettes
and knee-jerk our minds into the emptiness.

and later on, drunk on the time of day,
he tries to tell me, tries to tell himself,
how everything was all his fault,

how even when you're sneaking in,
nothing's ever free.
the corn maze is gone,
but we're still lost at sea.